To many people, Chianti is a kind of wine that comes in cute bottles covered with straw. OK, so I’ll speak for myself. That’s what I thought Chianti was before I first visited Italy several years ago. Here’s what else I knew: It was red.

Chianti, actually, is an area of Tuscany that spreads south of Firenze almost to Siena 40-something kilometers away. There’s Greve in Chianti, Strada in Chianti, Radda in Chianti, Gaiole in Chianti and lots of other towns in Chianti. Lots of things, too. Such as tourists. Which is what we were over the weekend.

Italy has many treasures. No question. But chief among them is this area of wooded hills, winding roads, small scenic towns and more vineyards than Bob Dylan has had vocal styles. And especially this summer, which has seen a drop in tourism, the accommodations have been easy to get. We ended up staying for two night at Castello de Lamole (90 euro for a spacious double suite), a country inn set on a hill and dating back to the 12th century.

The place was renovated extensively a few years ago, and so there are lots of amenities — a pool, electricity, a restaurant — to go along with the rustic stone walls remaining from what once was a fort important during the long-held struggle between Firenze and Siena.

And speaking of the restaurant, which is named Aia dei Canti, the proprietors offered us two special Italian treats. One, as what must be part of the “slow food” movement, it took three hours for five of us to have dinner (after two hours, I thought my wife was going to scream). Two, we were serenaded by folksinger Riccardo Marasco, owner and specialist in ancient Tuscan song, whose voice could fill La Scala, much less the small dining space.

It was an experience that was pure Italy. And while not for everyone (some folks, no one will be named, just can’t break their fast food habits), it would be perfect for those looking for a bit of peace and some Tuscan cultural traditions.

Only thing is that the wine, while red, didn’t come in those bottle baskets. What’s up with that?

Note to anyone who thinks that Brad Pitt ruins “Troy”: He ain’t what’s wrong with this movie.

“Troy” has to be one of the worst conceived films ever to cost $200 million. Check that. Put a period after the word ever. If Homer were still alive, he’d be looking for an entertainment lawyer. Since he’s been dead for the better part of 2,700 years (or maybe even longer; no one seems to know for sure), he’s going to need a pretty sharp lawyer. Maybe even Johnnie Cochran.

But even O.J.’s savior would have trouble salvaging something from the ridiculous plot that director Wolfgang Petersen inherited. “Troy” screenwriter David Benioff apparently missed his classics class in college. Hell, he must not even have read the Classics Comics version of Homer’s epic poem “The Iliad.” Benioff pared the 10-year war between Greece and Troy down to a couple of weekends. Homer’s Achilles is a secondary character with an ego as big as Harvey Weinstein’s, but Benioff made him the star. Benioff completely eliminated the need for Aeschylus to have ever written his study of the Greek king Agamemnon. Worst of all, he turned one of the great works of world literature into a couple of love stories with less emotional fire than a Steve Reeves toga party.

Yet let’s forget the sources of this story and Benioff’s many inaccuracies. Judged even by modern standards, “Troy” has less to say of importance than a Cliff’s Notes study guide. With nothing to follow except such lame dialogue as “No son of Troy will ever submit to a foreign ruler!” (Eric Bana’s Hector to Brian Cox’s Agamemnon), which earns the clever reply, “Then every son of Troy shall die,” director Petersen has little to do but fill the screen with closeups of Saffron Burrows (Andromache) and Orlando Bloom (Paris) and Diane Kruger (Helen) and especially rheumy-eyed Peter O’Toole (Troy’s King Priam). He resorts to showing more funeral pyres than could possibly ever be held in, yes, a DESERT BEACH LAND WITHOUT TREES. With nearly three hours of running time to fill, he uses a sense of pacing that moves slower than the iceberg that sank the Titanic.

If anything, the impressively abbed Pitt is the single best thing about “Troy.” Sure, his fighting moves seem more Jackie Chan than Alexander the Great, but he actually is more sexually alluring than Krueger’s Helen (at least he drew more whistles from the audience I sat among). In fact, all those critics taking unfair shots at him better watch out. Having earned $20 million to do Petersen’s film, Pitt might decide to spend some of that loot to get a bit of legal payback. With that much in the bank, he could almost afford Johnnie Cochran.

If Homer doesn’t come back from the dead and hire him first.

Just got out of “Van Helsing,” which I saw in Italian. Without English subtitles. Which probably didn’t hurt the experience much. Hugh Jackman looked great (in all his movies he has the standard “Capt. Kirk Take Off Your Shirt Clause,” which William Shatner created for the first “Star Trek Series).

But besides Jackman, director Stephen Sommers (both “The Mummy” movies) made sure that the action scenes were digitally exciting, that the vampires looked toothy enough and that things blew up really good. What more do you want from a summer film?

Look, I’m not saying that we have to do away with standards just because we’re forced to watch the stuff that Hollywood churns out for release between May and the end of July. But I am saying is that we can choose to judge summer films with a different set of standards than we do, say, “The Pianist.” Anyone who doesn’t might as well spend his or her time at home watching “Citizen Kane” until the disc melts (or until the meaning of “Rosebud” becomes clear). Me, I like to watch movies. All kinds of movies. So I choose to see movies such as “Van Helsing,” even in Italian without subtitles, and enjoy them for what they are.

In fact, the only real problem that I had with the film was that Asia Argento (remember her from “XXX”?) should have been cast as the female lead instead of the British femme Kate Beckinsale. Since Argento’s father is the great Italian filmmaker Dario Argento (“Suspiria”), she would have been right at home in a horror/action flick. At the very least, she’s native Italian and wouldn’t have had to have her dialogue dubbed for the movie that I saw.

Not that I would have understood it any better. My Italian is, no surprise, molto brutto. Good thing that the meaning of “Van Helsing” was easy to grasp. Easier to understand, certainly, than how William Shatner ever came to have an actual film career, shirt off or on.

There comes a time when stone streets will break even the strongest of knees. Not that my knees are the strongest. Not even close. They weren’t strong even when I was 20-something veteran just back from Vietnam and afraid only of women who smiled at me in bars (my reaction was, generally, to look over my shoulder and try to see who they were flirting with). Good thing those days are over, because my wife is reading this.

So… where was I? Oh, yeah, tired knees. Aching knees. Knees that hurt so much that if they were children their parents (me, presumably) would be locked up for physical abuse. And the authorities would be justified in doing so because only a sadist would choose to spend the afternoon following Italian class by walking around the centro of Firenze. That’s what we’ve been doing for the past several hours, scuttling in and out of traffic (and limping) from the Piazza della Repubblica to and across the Ponte Vecchio, past the Palazzo Pitti through the Giardino Boboli (up and down the dirt/stone paths), back out on the sidewalks and back alleyways of the Oltrarno, to the bookstore Il Torchio (puchasing gifts for our KPBX radio producer, Marty Demarest, and others), then to the pizzeria I Tarochi (which was closed and is why I’m here at this Internet Train site, in the coolness of the late afternoon, typing this). Yeah, I agree: It IS a hard life.

Two notes: One, I had a cappuccino earlier this afternoon that even Joe Thomsen (of Joe’s Coffee up on the South Hill) would approve of. It was at the new Giacosa, which is what is left of the venerable coffee shop that was so unceremoniously moved from its traditional location a few years ago. I know: Knowledgeable Florentines aren’t supposed to order cappuccini in the afternoon. But we were with Henry Batterman, the Gonzaga University professor of Italian and a veteran of Florentine life for over two decades. And I simply followed his lead.

Two, we bought tickets to a Saturday night calcio match between Firenze and Napoli. I had to pay full price, but my wife Mary Pat got a discount (23 euro to my 30). The sound of her laugh was worth the blow to my pride. Even now, the memory of her laughter is almost enough to make me forget my aching knees.

Almost.

Had a hit of gelato today. That’s nothing special, though, because we eat gelato every day. In fact, it’s fair to say that a day without gelato is a day wasted, and that’s coming from a guy who before I every visited Italy would hear people talk about gelato and think, “Oh, please. What a bunch of pretentious crap.” So I understand why anyone would think the same of me. But truth is truth no matter how hard we try to deny it. And the truth is, Italian gelato, despite its exotic name, is quite simply the best ice cream in the world.

That’s not to say that I haven’t had good ice cream at home. I used to eat cones of the stuff at the Milk Bottle in Spokane’s Garland district – until I discovered that the 24 percent butterfat content was causing my waist to expand like a cheap accordion. Here in Firenze, that’s less of a problem because we walk everywhere – from our apartment across the centro to the new building that houses Gonzaga University’s Florence Program (where my wife Mary Pat teaches law), from the school to the market, from the market back to the apartment, back out to the bookstore or to the wine shop or a museum or a movie (last night we saw Michael Winterbottom’s “Code 46” in English) or just out for a nightly passeaggiata (or stroll) with the rest of the city.

And besides, they say that gelato is low fat compared to American ice cream (right, and I bought the David the other day, too). Whatever, at least once a day during all that activity, we eat gelato. There are a number of Internet sites that champion one Florentine gelateria over the next. There are at least five different spots that we frequent, from Carabe (which is just a five-minute walk from the school and near the Galleria dell’Accademmia) to Festivale del Gelato (which is just off Via dei Calzaiuoli, the main drag between the Duomo and the Piazza della Signoria). You have to add in Perche No? (not far from Festivale del Gelato), which on one trip earned the name Perche Non Aperto? because it was never open. And of course there’s Vivoli (a block west of Piazza Santa Croce), the world-famous, always-crowded spot that features abrupt servers handing out small cups (no cones) of, yes, delicious gelato for a ransom that would bankrupt God.

But (and my wife, who is a confirmed Vivoli freak, considers this a heresy) my favorite place is Gelateria dei Neri (located on Via dei Neri, which runs parallel to the Arno River beginning at the southern end of the Uffizi). It isn’t the biggest or the best known, but the nights I have been there (late and hungry), the guy behind the counter has been friendly, willing to speak to me in Italian and not ungenerous with his scoop. In a country that sometimes doesn’t seem to know the meaning of customer service, such small touches are particularly appreciated.

And besides, when it comes down to it even the worst gelato is still the best ice cream you’ve ever tasted. But you’ll have to excuse me. When I talk about Italian ice cream, especially my favorite flavor (stracciatella), it’s hard not to sound pretentious. Of course, I’m not trying very hard.

All cities are known by their smells. Depending on the season, Spokane can smell either as fresh as the wind whipping up over the spring gush of the Spokane River or as musty as the mess that the seagulls deposit all August long in Riverfront Park.

Italy is no different. On the coast, at the Cinque Terre for example, the wind blowing in off the Mediterranean carries with it the familiar aroma of kelp, fish and salt, mixed with a bit of whatever you happen to be eating (or drinking) at the moment. In Firenze, the summers are hot and sticky and the streets don’t always get, uh, cleaned if you catch my drift. So the smell can be, yes, a bit rank. La Citta Bella becomes La Citta Puzza.

And to tell you the truth, I’ve never been a big Firenze fan. Yeah, I know. It has culture, it has the history, it has the art, it has the language and the gardens and towers and gelaterias… well, everyplace has the gelaterias, but you know what I mean. Yet Firenze seems too enclosed, too dark and at times foreboding. Walking down some of its narrow side streets even in daytime can be, for a claustrophobe such as I, an adventure in heavy breathing (and not the good kind). Me, I’ve always been a fan of Roma.

But yesterday, stepping off the train, Firenze struck me differently. I was much more open to its charms. It wasn’t just that a mid-May breeze was giving the city almost a Northwest feel to the air. It wasn’t just that the streets were less crowded than usual (and certainly will be in a couple of weekends). It wasn’t even that the sun was shining down from a sky that had expelled all but a few fleecy clouds.

No, it was the smell. There was a curious kind of scent that didn’t carry with it any negative references. No stench of sewage or garbage, no spoiled food or old sweat or seagull droppings. I couldn’t, and I still can’t, describe exactly what it was. Except, of course, to say that it smelled like Firenze.
Which, for the first time, was a good thing.

He called himself Lino, and if he hadn’t shown me his press clippings I would have thought him a shameless self-promoter, telling me how good his food was and how he’d been voted one of the top three chefs in Italy blah-blah-blah. And then I took a bite of what I’d ordered, and I forgave him everything.

But let me back up. We spent out penultimate day in the Italian coastal town of Positano by taking a bouncy pig of a boat to the sainted island of Capri. I say sainted because the guidebooks describe Capri with the same kinds of words that some people use for sex: breathless, exciting, palpitating, heat-seeking missile… uh, not that last one. The reality was a bit different: crowded with schoolchildren, hot, overpriced and boasting the same kind of atmosphere found in a cheap Las Vegas resort.

The reality of the trip over was that the woman sitting behind us blew chunks shortly after we shoved off, and others almost followed her. All that and for just 22 euro (about $25) a head!

Still, we arrived more or less in peace, we quickly took the finocolare (tram) up the mountin, transferred to a bus there and went on to Anacapri (the top point of the island). Then we took even another bus to the point on the northwest side of the island, overlooking the fabled grotta azzurra — or Blue Grotto. We’d hoped to see the inside of this natural wonder, which is supposed to have water so blue that it makes the sky pout, except that nature wouldn’t cooperate: The waves were too big for anyone but swimmers to enter the grotto, and we’d left our wetsuits back in Spokane.

So, what else was there to do but eat? We ended up at Nettuno, one of two restaurants a few steps away from the walkway down to the grotto entrance. And standing there, fronting the sea, was Lino Giamminelli, trying to get us to let him order a group meal for us (we didn’t ) and recommending the perfect white wine (whatever it was, it was!). I had few hopes, but I went with his recommendation (vegetarians tend to be suggestive). And then the dishes arrived.

And Leslie Kelly will be surprised to hear this, but I had the MEAL OF MY LIFE! The ravioli was in a red sauce so exquisite that I literally stopped eating and almost spit it out. The cheese-filled squares of pasta had a stuffing so tasty that I’m sure the cow whose milk made it must get treated like a bovine Paris Hilton. I was reminded of the scene in Robert Rodriguez’s “Once Upon a Time in Mexico” in which Johnny Depp liked a certain dish so much that he went into the kitchen and shot the chef. My wife had something Lino called “Pasta Aumm Aumm,” which was penne and eggplant and tomatoes all blended together in a concoction that made you want to moan “mmmmm, mmmm.” As, without embarrassment, I did.

The dish ordered by my sister-in-law Jean was the same as mine, and my brother-in-law Steve had a special seafood plate that Lino talked him into ordering. They, too, were moaning with a kind of food-inspired sexual heat. And the wine, along with Lino’s special fragola semifreddo (a kind of air-blown strawberry gelato), while not cooling things off too much, managed to finish the meal with the kind of perfection seldom found outside Michelangelo’s private studio.

So, the upshot. It’s never pleasant to have to listen to people brag about themselves, except of course when it turns out that they’re just telling the truth. Lino was, telling the truth that is, and damn if the meal that he oversaw production of wasn’t something that I will no doubt still be dreaming about at certain moments during my next three lifetimes. It was so good that I might be tempted to return to Capri tomorrow.

I’d even be willing this time to sit right next to the woman who blows chunks.

My friend Leslie Kelly, who now writes about food and restaurants and all things gastronomic for Memphis’ daily newspaper, The Commerical Appeal, says she has been reading my Italy blog. But she says something is missing: specific news about food, etc. So this is for her.

Eating is the great joy of Italy for most visitors. American chefs such as Rocco DiSpirito and Lidia Bastianich have made their fortunes by exploiting the recipes and regional dishes of Italy’s 20 regions. Yet many people continue to associate Italy mostly with pasta and pizza. Too bad, because in Positano, the big draw is seafood, which should come as no surprise since we’re about as far from the sea as it would take to hurl an eggplant. And so I mention just a few of our better dining experiences.

We ate at a spot overlooking the city called Tataglia, in which my wife Mary Pat, her sister Jean and Jean’s husband Steve ate platters of grilled fish (including calimari) and meats (while I, the vegetarian, satisfied myself with grilled peppers and eggplant and zucchini).

Last night we dined at a restaurant called Mediterraneo, and while I had pasta with vegetables, Mary Pat had a pepper steak (al sangue, or so so rare that it actually bled), Jean had veal so tender that I thought I heard it cry out when she bit into it, and Steve had a plate of risotto (with baby shrimp) so big that he could have skied down it had he been so inclined. And today we ate at La Cambusa, a beach-side eatery at which I had one of the most delicate omlettes with mushrooms I’ve ever eaten, my wife had the mixed fish grill (the anchovies still had their heads attached), while Jean had pasta with clams and Steve spinach ravioli in red sauce. No one left the table complaining.

In fact, the only problem that we’ve had so far is price. It’s not unusual to drop 100 euro (about $118) for four every time we sit down. And even if this does include wine, it means that I’ll likely be packing my lunch from home over the next few months to pay off my credit card bills. But, hey, what the hell. As Rocco DiSpirito and my friend Leslie will tell you, Italian food is worth it. E veramente il piu buono cibo in tutto il mondo.

That’s a switch. In movies past, the Greek hero has always been played by a swarthy type — Jack Palance, for example. But in Wolfgang Petersen’s version of the classic tale, Eric Bana (“The Hulk”) is cast as the golden boy Hector, Troy’s favorite son.

This must be what they call casting against type. Anyway, I find it hard to believe that Pitt (the lover) will be convincing as the world’s greatest warrior. That’s about as hard to believe as Jennifer Aniston as Helen.

lesson in blogging from a remote site: Watch the clock. I’d spent a half hour relating the tales of our Saturday ride from Naples to Positano, this picturesque beach town on the Mediterranean when, blink-blink, my whole message disappeared. Just like that. No warning as with any other Internet business I’d ever used from Poland to Costa Rica. Just… nothing. Here’s today’s lesson in irony: I wasn’t too angry.

But, hey, you get over things, right? I mean, when you wake up the next morning and step out onto the terrace of your rented apartment and the sun is shining brightly, rolling clumps of white clouds spot the cobalt-blue sky and the sea that is RIGHT THERE BELOW YOU seems to run on forever, life doesn’t seem so bad, pal. Not bad at all. In fact, it’s almost enough to make you want to throw away your watch and not care about the time at all.

Which reminds me. I wonder how much time I have l… damn!

So, the international newspapers here in the Amsterdam airport are hitting the U.S. hard because of the incidents with the prisoners in Iraq. It’s tough to read. Seems as if we, meaning all of us humans but particularly those who run the world, never learn. The same thing happened in Vietnam and in probably every other war fought in the world. It just goes to show: Life isn’t a “Friends” episode. As one New York Times columnist said, it’s no wonder why Americans are so taken by the end of the ”Friends” run. They WERE our only friends, and now they’re gone, too.